


The Light of Falling Stars

by EwanMcGregorIsMyHomeboy12



Series: Lived, Loved, Lost [4]
Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Boating, Catholicism, Feelings, Fluff, Italy, M/M, Old Age, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Suicide, Widowed, cancer mention, little boy - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-04-17 01:29:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14177631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EwanMcGregorIsMyHomeboy12/pseuds/EwanMcGregorIsMyHomeboy12
Summary: Elio sits in the long tendrils of dune grass, watching the boats on the water sail over the glittering sea and imagines himself among the sailors someday, when he's finally old enough to understand the boats and the Priest and all the things that his Nonna says.He watches the old man that Nonna calls Ernesto, his curly hair blowing in the salt water, marching stiffly to his boat at the far end of the dock, avoiding the other sailors as if his life depends on it. And one day, Elio follows him, determined to understand the mystery of this man, who seems so alone in a place like this.





	The Light of Falling Stars

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, folks! I hope you all enjoy this story, please note that it may be a little heavy for folks having a bad mental health day or suicidal thoughts, and I will certainly not take it personally if you feel it is something not healthy for you to read! 
> 
> That being said, I hope that you all enjoy the story! Please R and R, let me know what you think! 
> 
> If you like this, please consider reading Flowers and Chocolate, the companion piece. 
> 
> Feel free to come chat on tumblr, I love to talk Hannibal, fic prompts, and other things!
> 
> Some translations (My Italian is a bit rusty, please alert me to glaring errors):
> 
> Nonna/Nonno- Grandmother/Grandfather  
> Cioccolato- chocolate  
> Ragazzino- little boy  
> Sposa- spouse  
> Chiromante- fortune teller  
> Vecchio uomo - old man  
> Birra- beer  
> Ciao- Hello  
> Parli Italiano- Do you speak Italian?  
> Inglese- English  
> Moglie- wife  
> Marito- Husband  
> Effetto- Effect

His grandmother calls him Ernesto after the author Ernest Hemingway, which he does not think is a particularly kind nickname since Nonna often talked about how she hated Ernest Hemingway and all of his pretentious books. But then again, Nonna is not particularly kind; she is the only member of the parish who refused to bring food for the Easter vigil donation baskets because she believes that if someone wanted cioccolato, they could purchase it for themselves, despite Papa’s insistence that if someone could afford cioccolato for themselves they would not be on the list to receive a donation basket. It still makes her angry enough to huff away in indignation and sit in the car when Papa buys their donations from the market to take to the chapel where he always says it was from all three of them, even though it isnt true.

He had never seen Ernesto at the chapel, not even when everyone who never came arrived on Easter and Christmas, giving Nonna another reason to complain when she couldn’t sit in her favorite pew next to the fishmonger she has fancied for a long time, (Her whole life, according to Papa. Only after Nonno died, according to others.) in order to hold his hand as they wished beautiful peace upon the parish. Elio was certain that Easter was not supposed to be spent glaring at the back of the head of the woman who ran the forno near the school, but perhaps, he told himself frequently, he simply did not understand religion as much as he thought. He had many questions anyway, ones that the Priest had always told him would be clear to him after his confirmation. He was excited to see what might happen at the end of the summer when he finally turned thirteen and the mysteries of faith might be revealed. Until then, he wrapped his rosary beads around his fingers at night and wondered about the mysteries he could make more sense of. One such was the mystery of Ernesto.

“You need to stop staring out at the boats, Elio, that is how ragazzino’s go blind.” He was not inclined to listen to Nonna, especially since he had only met one person who was blind and nearly ninety years old. So he would ignore her and wrap his arms around his bare knees while he sat in the seagrass, watching as the ships sailed out to the glittering sea. But once Papa repeated it, he would turn his eyes away and go back to tending the trees that surrounded them, cutting away the growths that threatened the soft bark and plucking the ripe fruits that Papa would sell at the market when he left work at on Tuesday’s, or that he would help Nonna can in jars so they could spread them on jam cakes in the wintertime when everyone else was eating only beans and fish because the trees had gone dormant. Nonna always said the greatest tragedy was that people lacked the common sense to plan ahead. She made the same complaints about Elio’s mother (at first when she thought he couldn’t here, and now in the open since it was too late for him to not hear it), that if she hadn’t wanted to care for a child, perhaps she shouldn’t have had one to start with. Papa still yelled at her each time, but Elio just smiled to himself, thinking that was perhaps why his Nonno had given up fighting off the pneumonia, just to get a few moments of peace from Nonna’s constant complaints.

He wished he could be out there on the harbor, where he spent the summers when there was no school swimming in the shallows and running along beaches in search of shells or some hidden treasure. Now, mid-June, his skin was dark tan and his hair several shades lighter from its usual black color, and he longed to be out there in the water instead of among the trees, plucking early cling peaches and plums from the heavy-laden branches. But it was the fruit that paid for almost everything they had, the orchard their most valuable asset where Papa’s job paid for the car and all of their trips to the Doctor, especially Nonna’s who was having to go more and more for her hip that she had to swing into place each morning when Papa helped her out of bed.

He watched the boats out at the seat, knowing he would own one someday. A bright, gleaming boat with the name of his sposa painted on the side so that when they looked out over the glittering water, they would see their name and know it was him, coming home or leaving again to bring home adventure. He had spent days at the docks, talking to the sailors and fishmongers as they unloaded boats of sold goods and seafood to take to market or load onto trucks to carry it further inland. If it was his favorite sailor: A grizzled, bearded, former naval officer, he would toss him something that he would bring back from his travels. A bit of brick from Egypt, a piece of Turkish glass, a carved bit of metal from a Danish chiromante. He kept them in a box under the floor where Nonna couldn’t find them, not even when she got in one of her moods where she was convinced he had taken her keys, sleeping eye covers, or spare apron strings.

Most of the sailors were young, though, and paid him little mind unless they thought he might buy something. They walked by him, arms strong from years of hauling crates of items down the tall ramps, pulling the heavy wires that controlled their sails, holding the ships steady while they navigated the whole of the sea around them. He watched them in awe, picturing himself among them as soon as he could prove to Papa that school was a waste of his time and his life was one meant for the water.

Which is perhaps why Ernesto was so captivating to him. For a vecchio uomo, Ernesto moved with the grace of one of the young sailors, walking along the pier fast enough that none of the people there talked to him, even though most everyone was looking to buy something or have a chat after days or weeks on the water. He rarely smiled, usually only when Elio knew he thought people couldn’t see him, and he could look out onto the water that blew his thick, iron-gray curls back off of his forehead, blowing bits of salt water onto his glasses which he wiped on his sleeve instead of the handkerchief that he kept in his jacket pocket. Nonna, despite her calling him Ernesto, always commented how handsome he was when Elio told her about seeing him on the docks, a little blush on her face. Papa would roll his eyes, saying that Nonna had best keep her interests to one fishmonger, lest there be rumors beginning to spread around the parish.

Ernesto kept his boat docked in the farthest part of the dock, renting a dock space so near the marsh that most of the sailors wouldn’t touch it for the threat of snakes. But with his thick boots, it never seemed to bother Ernesto, and Elio watched him tread there, ignoring the lure of the open water, until he could climb onto his boat, tinkering with the engines underneath the steering mechanism or re-threading the sails until the sun went down and he would start to walk back and Papa would yell for Elio to help him unload the car with leftovers from the market.

Elio sat now in the dune grass, knees tucked up under him, as Ernesto began his late evening rounds out to his boat. Elio watched as he ignored the friendly call of a docking ship, offering him a birra with them. He would shake his head, softly, roll his shoulders closer to his body and walk quicker, though stiffly, to his seclusion at the end of the dock. Elio watched him pull his toolbox from under one of the floorboards, right where Elio would keep it, and take off a panel, adjusting something on the outside of it.

He wasn’t sure what possessed him to follow him today, perhaps the fact that the grass was far too ticklish against his bare legs, or the looming threat of the crabs nest nearby drove him too it. Either way, he walked to the marsh, sandals slapping hard against the sand. The same crew of sailors yelled to him, offering him a glass, but he simply grinned up at them, waving his hand until they gave up, and he could continue. The sun was setting low, Papa would be home soon, but he wasn’t going to lose this moment of courage he could feel in his chest.

He reached down to his rosary in his pocket, running his fingers over the familiar beads for courage, and marched on to where he was hidden from Ernesto’s vision by his own boat. Painted on the side, in misshapen black letters was _Abigail,_ looking as if Ernesto had perhaps painted it on himself since it matched neither the rest of the paint and also looked as though it had been painted on several times in order to weather the corrosion of the salt water it cut through. He reached out a hand to touch it, small black paint chips sticking to his fingers from water damage that looked as If it had been done only that day, wondering who it might be named for.

When Ernesto had first come, had first gotten his boat, he had been accompanied only by another vecchio uomo who Papa said had come often to the markets. Very different than Ernesto, Nonna had first described him as a man who probably enjoyed opera for the story, which was far from a compliment, but after he had come a few times to the chapel and spoken with several members there after many masses, even she had been charmed with him. Elio had not seen him in a very long time, now that he thought about it, and Papa had stopped mentioning his trips to their booths to buy fresh fruits. Now, it was only Ernesto and his daily trip to his boat.

“Ciao.” He said, and despite his intentions, his words startled Ernesto who practically leapt a foot back from the boat, knocking off the panel he was working under, where one of the spare lights might be connected. “Parli italiano?” Elio asked, reaching down to pick up the panel as Ernesto pushed his glasses up his face, not looking him in the eyes with sharp blue eyes, his face set in a deep frown.

“Inglese.” Ernesto replied, his pronunciation garbled to the point that Elio had to smile. An American, then, perhaps that explained Ernesto’s forced solitude and absence from mass. The priest only gave services in Italian, and while Ernesto’s companion had certainly spoken perfect Italian, the same was not true for him. Perhaps he went to the English parish in Florence, where Nonna said all the ne’er-do-wells pretended to be Catholic. With all of its obligations, Elio wasn’t sure why anyone would pretend to be Catholic, it seemed to be an extraordinary amount of work.

“Did you need something?” Ernesto asked, his voice gruff with more than age as he set the panel back on the edge of the boat. Elio shook his head, unfazed by the rudeness. It was how all the sailors had been, until they got to know him, knew that he wasn’t there to mess around with their boats or trying to steal. “Why—why are you here, then?” Ernesto asked, taking off his glasses and cleaning them on his sleeve before putting them back on, folding his arms.

“Why don’t you clean your glasses with your handkerchief?” Elio asked instead, and Ernesto was startled into making eye contact with him, blue eyes wary, wrinkles crinkling around the edges. Or perhaps, Elio decided, he was annoyed that he was here bothering him. Either way, he had questions and wasn’t sure that Ernesto would ever even come back. “Doesn’t your sleeve just make them dirtier?”

“It’s not my handkerchief.” Ernesto said gruffly, and Elio couldn’t argue with him. It looked like the handkerchief Papa had worn the last time he went on a date. It hadn’t gone well, but Elio didn’t think it was because of the handkerchief.

“Did you steal it?”

“No.” Ernesto said, and Elio’s heart swelled with pride as Ernesto couldn’t help a small smile. He kept his hand on the boat, not wanting to get too close. He didn’t want Ernesto to think he was going to try and rob or attack him or something obscene like that. “I took it off a dead man, I suppose.”

“Did you kill him?” Elio asked, enjoying this game.

“Almost.” Now Ernesto seemed to be on the verge of outright laughter. “A couple of times, actually.”

“I can see why you carry it, then, if you went through all of that work.” Elio said, and then was quiet, peering into the panel that Ernesto had been working on. “What’s that?”

“You have a lot of questions.”

“I’m going to be a sailor.” Elio said, looking back at Ernesto who had uncrossed his arms and was instead setting his wrench back on the ledge of the boat. On his ring was a gold band that glittered brightly in the setting sun. Elio stared at it for a moment, feeling the wariness start to return to Ernesto.

“Is Abigail your moglie?”

“My daughter actually, I was married to someone else.”

“Was?”

“I’m a widower. Or a widow, I suppose.” Ernesto said, and let out a long sigh.

“Are you redoing the light?” The sudden change jolted Ernesto, who’s eyes were becoming cloudy with memories. It was the same look Papa got sometimes, when Elio asked him about Mamma before she had left. A strange look. Not sad, simply…lost.

“It’s been out for a while. I haven’t been able to go out at night. But the part I ordered to fix it came in.” Ernesto explained. There was a moment of quiet as Elio investigated the wires beneath the panel, leading to the light that would shine across the front of the boat to show the water. “What—what’s your name?” Ernesto finally said, his voice hesitant, as if he wasn’t really sure he wanted this to be personal.

“Elio.”

“…Aren’t you going to ask mine?”

“My Nonna calls you Ernesto.” Ernesto finally did laugh at that, raising a slightly oil tinged hand to cover his mouth at the sound. He pushed that same hand through his hair after a moment, moving it off of his face.

“Why does she do that, exactly?”

“After Ernest Hemingway. She says there is no better name for the old man and the sea.” Elio said, and Ernesto blinked at him, his face twitching to a strange expression. “Nonna is not very nice.”

Ernesto snorted again, looking away to the ocean. “You should go home, Elio.” He said, “It is getting late.”

“Okay.” Elio agreed, and didn’t want to push his luck further with Ernesto, who he thought had probably come here to be alone in the first place.

 

The days of mid-summer passed in a flurry of peach baskets and ocean breezes, clinging to his skin like the fabric of the loose shirts his father insisted that they wear when picking the fruit to keep the rest of their clothes clear of dirt and the juice that came from the broken bits of peach that would run down Elio’s fingers when he accidentally squeezed to heard and the fruit was automatically added to the canning pile rather than the baskets for sale.

But the evenings were spent in new company, Ernesto’s company, where Elio would sit on the banks and watch as Ernesto cleaned up and worked on his boat. The work was methodical, intricate, and Elio absorbed it, asking a barrage of questions that Ernesto seemed happy to answer after the fourth or fifth day of his presence. He had to remind himself that Ernesto was not even his real name, even though he responded to it now, as easily as if it were. Perhaps Nonna had been good at guessing it was.

“Who was your sposa, Ernesto?”

“Why don’t you think of a name for him, Elio? I’m sure he would find that more entertaining.” He wasn’t sure why Ernesto tried to always avoid questions about his marito when he answered far more complicated ones about boat mechanics with ease. Even the stories he occasionally told usually did not involve him; perhaps Ernesto was sad. But he never mentioned Abigail either, even as he sometimes let Elio paint her name on the new Abigail, making the letters stronger each time.

“Ismael.” Elio said, “But you can’t tell Nonna,” He insisted, thinking of the Ishmael from the bible who he had heard Nonna curse under her breath during one particularly volatile mass procession.

“Your secret is safe.” Ernesto had promised while resetting one of the panels. “He would appreciate the irony of it, I’m sure.”

 

As fall drew nearer, it became clearer and clearer to Elio that Ernesto was not as strong as he once was. He sat often, taking longer breaks, his breathing almost always coming in ragged gasps, littered with heavy coughs and wheezes. One day, when Elio went to paint Abigail again, he realized the letters looked the same, the boat hadn’t been out on the water in the days since the last coat he had put on. “Are you not going back out to the water, Ernesto?”

“Only one more time, I think.” Ernesto said, “I am not as strong as I used to be, Elio.”

“Nonna says that old age is God’s curse on all sinners,” Elio said, thinking that might be helpful. “She says you can come to our chapel anytime you want, even though you don’t speak Italian. Nonna doesn’t think English mass has the same effetto as the one here.”

“I wouldn’t know the difference.” Ernesto said, looking over at him. “But don’t tell your Nonna.”

“Nonna thinks your handsome, even though you don’t go to mass.”

“Ishmael thought the same.” Ernesto said, and laughed to himself, even though Elio didn’t get the joke. “Best not tell your Nonna.”

Elio nodded, smiling.

 

Another night, Ernesto was sitting on the bank while Elio worked, replacing the glass cover of the light with Ernesto’s new pieces, his chest heaving with simply the effort of breathing. “I’m going on my last outing tomorrow, Elio. Would you like to go?”

“You seem sick, Ernesto.”

Ernesto laughed, beginning to cough with the same deep cough he’d had for weeks now. “You’re too observant, Elio.” He said, “Tomorrow is a special day to be on the water.”

“I’d love to go.” He said, and smiled brightly at the thought of finally, finally being on the water!

“Here,” Ernesto reached into his pocket, handing him a folded sheet of paper, heavy in his hands. “Take this with you, but you can’t open it until after we get back.” Elio nodded, putting it safely in his inner pockets, reaching down to help Ernesto off the ground. “I have some things to take care of at home. I’ll see you here tomorrow.”

 

 

Elio felt that he might be in the middle of the whole wide world out here, looking at the glittering stars as they began to appear, turned away from the glittering lights of the port cities nearby and back towards the soft glow at home where it didn’t affect his sight. Ernesto sat near him, in his own chair, rolling his fingers over something in his hands.

“You know how to steer, Elio?” Elio turned to him, nodding, “And how to dock?” Another nod. “Good.” Ernesto took something that looked like a set of pills from his hand and popped them into his mouth, swallowing after only a moment of peculiar thought.

“It’s beautiful out here, Ernesto.” Elio said, hands on the controls as they moved to the center of the boat. “Have you always been a sailor?"

“No. But it is beautiful. Almost makes me wish I had.” Ernesto agreed, his voice thick. Elio looked over at him instead to see heavy tears falling down Ernesto’s face, onto his jacket. For once, he took the handkerchief from his pocket and let them soak into the fabric. “I was born in the sea. Or reborn, I suppose.”

“You were?” Elio tried to imagine it, coming to life in a place like this. He didn’t think that Ernesto was baptized, but perhaps he had been wrong all along.  

“Ishmael, too.” Ernesto gave a little laugh, his words starting to slur, but finally not coughing.

“Oh.” Elio said, and wondered if that was why they found each other. He wondered, for just a moment, about love.

“I put him back in the sea, Elio.” Ernesto said, but Elio knew he wasn’t really talking to him. “It’s what he wanted.”

Ernesto’s voice was nearly a whisper now. Elio wondered why, what was wrong with him as he began slumping in his seat for a moment before forcing himself to stand, going over by the railing and staring out at the sky and the stars and the gleam off the water.

“I am sick, Elio.” Ernesto said. “Cancer, in my lungs.” Ernesto laughed, breathing through the handkerchief as if he were trying to breathe in what it offered. “But I don’t feel like waiting on that to kill me in some hospital.”

He turned to Elio, his eyes blue and clear and warm as they caught the falling light of the stars. “You can’t tell anyone, Elio. No one will know anyway. I made it so they’ll think I’ve gone.” He paused and laughed again, swaying so dangerously close to the rail that Elio nearly ran to him, his heart hammering in his chest as he tried to piece together what was happening. “I am leaving, I suppose.” Ernesto said.

“Ernesto…”

“I’m going to be with Ishmael, again. With Abigail.” Ernesto said quietly. “Maybe you, too, someday, if you still become a sailor after all of this.”

“Ernesto!” Elio felt the yell from his throat, but it was too late. Ernesto’s legs had buckled under him or he had fallen on purpose or he had maybe even jumped, but whatever had caused it, Ernesto’s body toppled over the side and hit the water with a splash that would have been loud had there been anything for it to echo off of. He ran to the edge of the boat, looking down, but the water here was at its deepest and there was no sign of his friend. He let his own knees buckle, bringing him down to the floor where he reached a hand to the water.

He stared, stayed there for a long moment, piecing together everything that had happened, all the bits and pieces of that summer playing through in his mind. All the conversations, the learning how to change wires and switch out plates, the baskets of peaches, the plums he had snuck a couple of to Ernesto every Tuesday when Papa didn’t count the baskets, the complaints Nonna had about his getting home late every day, the strange pills in Ernesto’s hands, the talk of birth and baptism, and he watched as one of his tears landed, sending ripples across the water. He took his rosary between his fingers, saying a prayer to Saint Michael, patron of travelers, and wished that whatever journey Ernesto was on now that he made it to the end that he wanted.

When it seemed there was nothing to do but return, he went back to the controls, steering back into port and docking the boat with the same motions that Ernesto’s weathered hands had taught him. And he went home, said no words, and laid on with his head on the pillow while the smell of saltwater clinging to his hair surrounded him and he finally fell into dreamless sleep.

 

He woke the next morning, at first not remembering. But the ache in his knees brought it back, one bruised from hitting the deck, and he had to stand to keep from crying, shuddering to himself. And he picked peaches and plums that day, not looking once at the water that glittered too brightly. Perhaps Nonna was right, and he had had gone blind after all.

And the day ended with him still inside, confusing Papa who was reading on the deck outside, but he didn’t ask questions. Papa was good for giving him space, and it wasn’t until he was lying in bed again in darkness that he remembered the paper Ernesto had handed him. He pried up the floorboards, pulling out his secret box of trinkets, and took out the folded paper. He stuffed the box back inside and walked to the windowsill, wanting to think of Ernesto and anything but Ernesto in that moment as he unfolded the paper.

He expected a note, something in the same scrawl that _Abigail_ was painted onto the side of the boat, but instead a pack of money came out, a wad of Euro bills and coins that seemed to equal some exact amount, and as he unfolded it and began to read, he realized it was a formal document, signed, sealed and delivered.

He looked out at the water, down to the dock where he knew _Abigail_ would be docked in her usual spot by the marshes, where he now owned both the boat and the dock spot legally, and where he would always have a piece of Ernesto there with him. And he waited and watched, not feeling any tears come as he breathed in deep sea air, letting the money that would pay all of the fees for him stay on the ground a moment longer as he looked out at the water where Ernesto had fallen in, had sent himself in, and he could have sworn that he saw the light of a falling star catch just there, illuminating the water with silent ripples that lapped at the edge of the shore as it sank below the surface where perhaps Ernesto had been born a third time.


End file.
